Missing Persons (12 page)

I was half expecting it to be one of those old-fashioned joke tins, where a fabric snake pops out, but when I opened the tin it was full of candies wrapped in gold cellophane. “It’s butterscotch,” I said. “I love butterscotch.”

She looked pleased. “I know. These are imported from Scotland. They’re heavenly.”

She turned back to the box, started removing items and spreading them on the floor, like some preauction display. She hummed as she did it. She was an odd duck. So nonantagonistic, so not sarcastic, so unnegative. So unlike me. She reminded me of someone. When I realized who, I laughed. She reminded me of Frank.

She saw me laugh. “I know how nuts this looks, my coming here. I know it
is
nuts, but I can’t help myself. I miss him. I miss the way he used to draw little pictures on everything, and the way he would shout at the TV during a Bulls game. I miss the way he laughed and the way he smiled and his voice. I even miss the way he tied his shoes.”

“Bunny ears,” I said.

She smiled. “And no one understands. But you.”

“Vera, I was with him for twenty-one years. We dated for almost six and were married for more than fifteen. You were with him for, what, three months before he left and four months after.”

“Seven months before he left,” she corrected me.

Frank had told me three. Another lie. I should be used to it by now.

“Whatever,” I said. “We’re not in comparable situations.”

“I know that,” she said. “And I know you think I have no right to any claim on him.”

“I didn’t say that.” I thought it, but I didn’t say it. “That’s why you went to the wake.” It had suddenly dawned on me. “If you didn’t go, it would be like saying you were his mistress, some secret, unimportant tryst. But if you went, if you stood with his friends and family and publicly mourned him, then you weren’t his mistress, you were his girlfriend.”

She nodded. “Frank said you could read people well and were impossible to fool.”

“Not always, obviously.”

As I spoke, something on the floor caught my eye. It was a book with a familiar cover, but the title was covered by a Cubs banner.

“What’s that?” I pointed toward it.

Vera grabbed the book, and I saw that it was a copy of
Travels with Charley.

“That must have gotten in there by mistake,” I said.

“No. It was Frank’s. He was reading it. He said someone he knew really loved it and he wanted to understand why. He was only about halfway through, but I think he was really enjoying it.” She handed me the book. “You keep it.”

I held the book in my hands and stared at it. My hands were shaking, and I felt flushed and woozy. It was the same way I’d felt when Frank kissed me for the first time.

A
fter Vera left, I went to bed with Frank’s copy of
Travels with Charley
and, without really meaning to, I ended up sleeping with it wrapped in my arms. And even though, as I’ve said before, I don’t think there are ghosts, I kept picturing Frank hovering above me, a huge smile on his face. Frank was always so pleased with himself whenever he did anything I liked, and I knew he would love the image of me clinging to a reminder of him. Which, of course, I wouldn’t want him to see.

Thinking that made me feel slightly ashamed of myself. What was wrong, exactly, with Frank doing something that made me happy? When we were first married everything he did made me feel good; even taking out the garbage was, to me, a sign of his love. Toward the end it was rare for Frank to do anything to please me. Was it because he stopped trying or because at some point I just refused to find happiness in him?

 

 

I was glad the next morning to be back to the relative safety of a television show and the case of a missing twenty-two-year-old woman. We had two interviews, which would make it a very busy day, and one where I could put my personal life completely out of my mind. The first interview was with Grayson Meyer, an ex–assistant state’s attorney and friend of the family. The second was with Jason, Theresa’s ex-boyfriend. I didn’t care about Meyer’s interview, since it would be more of the same “Theresa was a saint” stuff. It was Jason’s interview that would really make or break the story.

“Have you met this guy before?” Andres asked as we pulled into a parking spot of the building where Meyer had his office. It was a beautiful high-rise on Wacker Drive, a place for some of the wealthiest and most politically connected Chicagoans to do business.

“Never met him,” I told Andres, as he loaded the equipment cart. “I just know he used to be a prosecutor. Now he’s doing some pro bono defense work and using an office in a fancy law firm to do it.”

“He’s dreamy,” Victor said, offering up an theatrical swoon.

Victor had the sort of skinny, nonmuscular body that often begged the question, does he do coke? He heightened the effect with black jeans, black T-shirts, a spiked, sometimes dyed haircut, a nose ring, and several very colorful tattoos. He despised any male who might be considered more traditionally attractive.

“I don’t care what he looks like,” I told him. “I just want to get in, get a few sound bites, and get out. We’re just using him to give us some family information, plus a little legal info on missing persons.”

Andres grabbed his camera. “I shot an interview with the guy about six months ago. It was for some congressman’s campaign. And Victor’s right, he is kind of dreamy. We’ll understand if you want to extend the interview and just enjoy the view for a while.”

“Are you going over to the other side, Andres?” I teased.

“See how they are?” he said to Victor. “I can’t notice another man is attractive without her turning it into some sexual thing.”

“Women. It’s all about sex with them,” Victor agreed.

I laughed. “I love my boys,” I said and slapped them both on their butts.

There are two parts of field producing I love: learning about things I would never have otherwise learned and hanging out with the crew. Though spending the morning in a beautiful building interviewing a “dreamy” man didn’t exactly suck either. It was exactly what I needed to put Vera completely out of my mind.

On the twenty-eighth floor of the building, in the offices of one of Chicago’s most prestigious law firms, we were led to the law library and offered coffee, which we accepted. The guys started to set up and I watched the clock. Twenty minutes went by, and then forty. Andres was almost ready, and we still hadn’t met the man we were here to interview.

“This asshole is going to put us behind schedule,” I said, just as the door was opening.

“I’m so sorry I’m late. I got a phone call. I’m Gray Meyer.”

He was, as promised, dreamy. Early forties, about six foot one, dark brown hair and green eyes, with the slim but muscular build I would associate with a tennis player, not an attorney. Though judging by the Italian shoes, I’d guess he was a very successful attorney.

“No problem,” I said. “We’re just finishing with the lights.”

He introduced himself to me, then Victor, and he remembered Andres from the previous shoot. He even asked how Andres’s mom was. Apparently she had been in the hospital when they’d met six months before.

“You’re going into politics,” I said once we sat opposite each other. Andres and Victor were making final adjustments, so I would have little time to bond with Meyer, but he didn’t seem to need it.

He smiled. Perfect white teeth. “Why would you ask that?”

“You have a politician’s memory for people.”

He laughed. “You have a journalist’s knack for finding the story.”

“You are going into politics?”

“I already am, in a way. I helped get Bobby Rosenello elected to Congress. You know Bobby.”

“No. Should I?”

“He’s your congressman, isn’t he? Don’t you live in Bucktown?”

I blushed. First there was the embarrassment that I didn’t know my own congressman, and then the shock that he knew where I lived. My interview subjects never know anything about me. “How would you know that?”

He shrugged. “I guess I like to know who I’m talking to. Bucktown’s a great neighborhood. Great restaurants. Very artsy. Are you an artist in your spare time?”

“My husband was an artist.” I glanced down at my wedding ring, which had not left my finger since the day of the funeral.

He leaned a little toward me. “I’m sorry about your husband. I heard he just passed away.”

Who the hell was this guy?

“Where do you live?” I asked, just trying to think of something to get him off the topic.

“Lincoln Park. My wife is a lifelong resident.”

“That’s a nice neighborhood too.”

Lincoln Park is about a mile away from Bucktown, but in a whole different tax bracket. Higher. Much higher.

“We’re ready,” Andres said, and I practically jumped up and thanked him. Restraining myself, I took a moment to study my notes and then told Grayson Meyer to keep his eyes on me the whole time and answer as completely as he could. No yes or no answers, since they wouldn’t play well on camera. He nodded.

Now the conversation would be back on my terms.

“G
rayson,” I started. “Can I call you that?”

He made a face. “No, I hate that name. It’s a horribly pretentious name. Call me Gray, which is better, if only slightly.”

I took a breath and relaxed a little. “Gray, let’s start with how you knew Theresa.”

He nodded, straightened himself in the chair, and looked at me. “I know Theresa through the Kenny family. Her closest friend, Julia, is the daughter of a friend of mine. I’ve met Theresa a number of times through the years. She’s a lovely young woman, very close to her family, very proud of being from Chicago. And if I remember correctly she had just finished her nursing studies. I think that shows she’s a giving person.”

“How much time did you spend with her?”

“Not much. We were only linked through the Kennys, but she did come to a Halloween party my wife and I threw a few years ago. We got into a conversation about politics. She thought there ought to be a law making community service mandatory. Something like the draft, but for helping people, not for war.” He smiled warmly, and a little sadly. “She’s probably right, though I doubt we could get it through Springfield, let alone Washington.”

“She seemed very keen on the idea of helping in the community. She even won an award . . .”

“Yes, I know about that. Theresa is the sort of person who gives you hope for the next generation. She really wanted to make a difference and she was willing to do more than sign up for a cause on Facebook; she was willing to actually go out there and create a better world. I really admire that kind of passion.”

“So you spoke about that with her?”

“Not in depth. As I said, I knew her mainly through the Kenny family.”

“If you didn’t know her that well, why am I talking to you?” I said it in a casual way, but I meant it.

“I think because I organized the search party and helped with the media. Julia’s dad called me the day after Theresa went missing. It was one of those things where everybody wants to help, so they reach out to people who might be able to do something. I did what I could.”

“Which was what?”

“I called the people I know at the
Tribune
and
Sun-Times
, the local news stations. I kept in touch with Detective Rosenthal, so I could help her and the family with the distribution of flyers. I just helped get the word out.”

“There was a large color poster of Theresa on the Morettis’ door. Are you talking about things like that?”

“We put them everywhere. We hired a private detective, searched the neighborhoods, tracked down leads that went as far as Los Angeles. Unfortunately, we haven’t had the outcome we’ve wanted so far.”

“That’s great that you were willing to give so much, but it sounds expensive and the Moretti family doesn’t really have that kind of money, do they?”

“I helped a little. And so did the community. There were a lot of fund-raisers, especially in those first few months. You never want to find out the way Linda has, but a community will come together to help. And they, we, came together to help the Morettis.”

“Were there leads?”

“That’s something Yvette Rosenthal could help you with. As far as I know, there haven’t been.”

“Did you know her boyfriend or her ex?”

He nodded. “I met them. Wyatt was the boyfriend’s name. He seemed nice, maybe a little overwhelmed. I don’t think they’d been together very long. But he hung in there. The ex, Jason, he took it harder. I know there was some trouble with him before she disappeared, but nothing serious. He showed up once to help, but Theresa’s brother didn’t want him there.”

“That’s Tom, right? What did he do?”

He paused. “He just didn’t want him there.”

There was finality in the statement that made me want to ask more, but Gray Meyer looked like the kind of guy who wouldn’t be pressed. And frankly, what did I care? I wasn’t here to solve the disappearance, just get a story that would fit into the template of true-crime shows.

“What about Julia?”

He sighed. “Poor thing. She was in the midst of planning her wedding to David. In the morning she would go to a dress fitting; in the afternoon she’d pass out flyers all over Bridgeport. She was destroyed. She wanted to cancel the wedding, but David wouldn’t let her. And the Morettis—not only did they come to her wedding, which had to be hard, but Tom Moretti made Julia’s wedding cake. He said Theresa would have wanted him to.”

“I got the impression they, maybe, blamed Julia.”

“You got the wrong impression.”

“Do you think Theresa could have just walked away and started a new life?”

“No. There’s no way. She wouldn’t have done that to her family.”